


i like the in-betweens

by tiffanyblews (peppermintz)



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, patrick is drunk in this fic, so if you consider that dubcon please avoid this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 06:13:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9871037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintz/pseuds/tiffanyblews
Summary: Patrick embracing Pete is way more pleasantly surprising. Both very pleasant and surprising. And kind of just plain weird, considering the late interband climate. It makes Pete's stomach turn over in butterflies and knots, anyway.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i got an old copy of alternative press with fall out boy on the cover and it fucked me up and i decided pete and patrick loved each other again and i remembered how much i missed them  
> 1\. this was written in the early a.m. hours and is not proofread  
> 2\. i'm not sure if it makes any sense  
> 3\. this is way too long i'm sure  
> 4\. i have no idea how tour buses work and what their drinking policies are  
> 5\. hope you like it anyway?
> 
> (p.s. ashlee does not exist in this fic)
> 
> (EDIT: christ i completely forgot to mention that this is set sometime around the honda civic tour)

Pete jumps a little when arms wrap snugly around his waist from behind. He figured everyone else was asleep and the idea of anyone embracing him instead of punching him in the arm or smacking the back of his head is both surprisingly pleasant and confusing.

“Why the fuck're you doing dishes?” Patrick mumbles, his cheek pressed against the back of Pete's hoodie. “It's like, one in the morning.”

“I wanted cereal,” Pete says, shrugging. Obviously, Patrick embracing him is _way_ more pleasantly surprising. Both very pleasant and surprising. And kind of just plain weird, considering the late interband climate. It makes Pete's stomach turn over in butterflies and knots, anyway. “How come you're not asleep? We've got like, forty-eight hours of shit lined up that you're not gonna be able to sleep through.”

“Mmm. . . can't sleep. I'm sorta drunk.”

Pete snorts, emptying out the kitchenette's sink and grabbing a bath towel off the counter he's using as a dishtowel. “You were drinking in your _bunk_? Seriously? The day before a fucking show? Dude, stop taking leaves out of other people's books.”

“It was only a couple of beers, God,” Patrick says, sounding both scornful and dismissive. He keeps clinging to Pete anyway, feeling soft and warm and cozy. Cuddly Patrick is a rarity, kind of a supernatural creature, something you'd have to summon by saying his name three times in a mirror with the lights off. He's like when a normally standoffish and irritable cat decides it wants attention. Patrick is, though, essentially a cat. Even if he's allergic to them. “Three, I guess. Whatever.”

Pete sets his cereal bowl on the counter and stands on his tiptoes to open up a cabinet near the ceiling. There's practically fucking nothing left to eat except for half a box of Lucky Charms, which is still far better than nothing. “How'd anyone let you get away with that? How'd _I_ let you get away with that? Seriously, I need to be, like, your guardian. Like when you were sixteen or something and I took you to college parties and shit.”

“You'd be the shittiest guardian ever, Pete. You were a shitty guardian then, too.” Patrick's voice sounds sleepy and a tiny bit slurry. “You made me play Spin the Bottle with a bunch of college-aged girls. Creep.”

“Did you or did you not have the best dreams a teenager could _ever_ ask for after that?” Pete manages to walk over to the minifridge to find milk for his cereal even with Patrick hugging him like a teddy bear because he'd rather break both his legs than ruin this intimate moment. “I gave you spank bank material for the next four years.”

“You gave _you_ spank bank material, you asshole. You just wanted to see me make out with older chicks.”

“Are you saying you never wanted to make out with older chicks?”

“ _So_ not the point. Creepy motherfucker.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely. Never said otherwise. Dude, I love you, but you've gotta let me go so I can eat my cereal.”

With a grumpy little noise, Patrick pulls himself away, stumbles back, and falls into the couch opposite the kitchenette. Pete's finally able to get a look at him when he, himself, turns with his cereal bowl and spoon in hand. Patrick is in his socks, a pair of Batman pajama pants, a Clandestine hoodie, and his black paperboy cap. He looks like an eleven-year-old who dressed in the dark and he's fucking adorable, especially because he's flushed and his cap is off-center and his hair is sticking out in all directions from underneath it. His glasses are lopsided. Cuddly Patrick is perfect, but cuddly, sleepy, drunk-dressed Patrick is _angelic_.

Pete sits at Patrick's side on the couch, spooning Lucky Charms into his own mouth. “Any reason why you're feeling all snuggly? Just, uh, so fuckin' attention starved that you're gonna go to me?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Patrick says, looking bemused, like he has no idea why Pete is even remotely touchable and snuggleworthy. “I dunno. Don't read into it or anything. I'm tired, man, it's not like – I wasn't really looking for you. You were kinda. . . there. You always are, but, like. Whatever.”

Pete isn't sure how to react to that and Patrick told him not to read into it, so he's not (but he so totally is). He begins separating the wheat cereal from the marshmallows in his bowl to distract himself. “I'm always there?”

“Yeah, you're just – kinda like, uh. You're always there when you're supposed to be. Or something.” Patrick blushes, like he gave something away. “Even when I don't want you there, you are, but it's not always bad. Fuck off, it doesn't matter, it's not like we're gonna get married 'cause I hugged you.”

Pete's stomach turns over again from something anxious and fluttery he can't identify. “Isn't that just basically a given? I mean, we're best friends, it's like a package deal, right? I'm supposed to be there even when you don't want me there. 'Cause we're best friends and I'm me. Just, like, the Pete Wentz experience. Think you even said that once.” He stuffs more cereal in his mouth because the chemical-heavy sugar makes this random and uninvited heart-to-heart easier to handle.

“It's _different_ ,” Patrick says, tugging at the hair sticking out from under his cap, sounding frustrated. “It's not 'cause you're fucking Pete Wentz, it's just 'cause you're. . . you. Two different things. You're like. Ugh, it's like. . . the one who's there is different. Not trademarked Pete Wentz.”

“Oh.” Pete kind of gets it and this isn't Patrick saying they're soulmates, just that the media sucks balls and mischaracterizes who he is and the actual him isn't a total dick. Of course. That's all. It's a stupid, roundabout way to go about it and pretty misleading, actually. Patrick is now a little less cute. Fuck him for being less cute.

“Yeah, I guess. You don't really let all that shit get to me, though. You won't let me read tabloids.” Pete offers Patrick a grin. “Thanks, man. You're a better guardian, y'know.”

“Yeah, you need a fuckin' guardian,” Patrick says, his brow furrowed. “How come you're eating that goddamn box of sugar at one A.M.? Dumbass. You're not gonna be able to sleep.”

Pete feels relieved they're no longer in uncharted waters (or, rather, waters that have been at least halfway charted but they could never make it through without almost drowning first). He takes a large bite of cereal and chews obnoxiously. “You're jealous 'cause beer and Lucky Charms can't mix.”

Patrick wrinkles his nose. “I'm jealous of my former self 'cause he didn't have to listen to you. Pete, you're gross. You're really gross.” He tries to yawn but he ends up hiccuping instead, swaying when he sits up. “Are you gonna make a thing out of it if I, like, hug you again?”

Pete looks up from his almost empty bowl. “Guess that depends on how you're gonna hug me and what you're gonna hug me with.”

“Fuck _off_.” Patrick shuffles forward and collapses against Pete, his forehead falling against the crook of Pete's neck. He links his arms clumsily around Pete's midsection, mumbling something indecipherable under his breath. Pete's stomach decides to flipflop a third time, his heart jumping in place. Patrick is pretty heavy, but the best kind of heavy: he's warm and substantial and soft and cozy and comfy and so very, fantastically Patrick. It's like when he decides to help Pete soothe out nightmares by climbing into his bunk and sleeping with him, but better somehow. Maybe it's because he's awake.

Patrick's sort of straddling Pete now, sitting on his lap. Pete's dick is pretty interested in this new development, making him swallow his last mouthful of cereal hard and painfully. That's so not what he needs after their Dr. Phil conversation.

“Hey, um, 'Trick?” Pete shifts and tries to twist his body in a way that he can avoid making an ass out of himself. Probably impossible right now, but he'll try. “If you fall asleep and drool all over me, I'll have to, um. Take pictures.”

“I'm not asleep,” Patrick says, sounding annoyed for a change. “Stop talking. And fucking – ” He pulls back a little, scowling at Pete. “Get your fucking dick under control.”

“My dick is totally under control,” Pete says defensively. “I have normal, healthy, male bodily functions. Not my fault you're jumpstarting them with, like, your ass all over them.”

“See? Creep. You creepy fucker. Why d'you care so much about my ass? You called me snuggly early. That's like wantin' to fuck. . . Winnie the Pooh or something,” Patrick says, still looking irritable and glassy and dazed and confused. Maybe he had more than a few beers.

“Winnie the Pooh doesn't have your ass. _No one_ has your ass. Who says I wanna fuck Winnie the Pooh?”

“You'd wanna fuck Winnie the Pooh if _I_ was Winnie the Pooh,” Patrick accuses.

“Who says I wanna fuck you?” Pete says, his voice raising a little too much. “Like, I mean, yeah, but not. . . You're seriously fuckable but not with me in the mix, okay? You made that real clear.”

“You wanna fuck me and you can't let it go. Or at least you wanna fuck my boxer shorts. Creepy _fucker_.” Patrick looks so smug and snotty for reasons Pete can't figure out and it's scaring the shit out of him, but it might not be so bad if Patrick is drunk and may not remember this. Still, you never know.

“What?” Pete stares at Patrick, beyond baffled _and_ scared. “What the fuck are you talking about? When'd I say I wanna fuck your underwear?”

“Last week. I saw you, you jacked off with my fuckin' boxers,” Patrick says, looking like he's just won a bet with Jay-Z or something. “You jacked yourself off and you threw my shorts out of your bunk and it was _so_ gross, Jesus Christ, Pete, there was jizz everywhere.”

Come to think of it, Pete _does_ remember that, at least vaguely. He couldn't sleep after having some vague sex dream and he was sweaty and hard and miserable, so he grabbed Patrick's boxer shorts, which had _so carelessly_ been left on the floor, and finished himself off to the thought of Patrick's various masturbation-related noises. Sometimes, Pete's lucky enough to catch them.

Yeah, Pete will admit the boxers thing was gross and a little out of line, but God created humanity so they could make mistakes. Everyone makes mistakes and Patrick doesn't seem to realize that.

“How'd you see it unless you were watching? Who's the creepy fucker now?” Pete says, thinking it's time to deflect.

“You woke me up, asshole, I just rolled over and I saw you drop my goddamn boxers on the floor and they were covered in your goddamn jizz.”

Pete shrugs, blushing and looking away, seeing no real way out of this. “Stop leaving your shit on the floor, okay? They were just – they were there where I could reach and I'd do it with either Joe and Andy's, too.”

“Liar. You're such a liar, Pete.” Patrick clearly thinks he's won a nonexisting argument and Pete has a strong desire to punch him over and over on the arm until he says sorry. “You're a liar and you wanna fuck me.”

“You _want_ me to fuck you? Is that why you're being a dick to me?” Pete says, narrowing his eyes. Goading Patrick on is generally unwise, but it's necessary right now because he's being a little bitch for pretty much no reason. Fuck random boners and unfortunate masturbatory-related situations. “ _Now_ you want me to fuck your majorly heterosexual ass after you told me over and over that I'm 'invading your personal space' and 'molesting you' and 'being a total freak'?” he says, generously using air quotes.

“No,” Patrick says, apparently confusing himself again. “No, fuck you. Not fair. I'm just saying you're _totally_ disrespecting my wishes.”

“No one just _stops_ being hopelessly in love with someone,” Pete says, rolling his eyes. “And that doesn't even mean I wanna fuck you. It's, like, a _fact_ that I'm hopelessly in love with you. Get over it.”

“That's not even. . .” Patrick seems annoyed again. Maybe a little angry, and fuck knows why, he started all this. “That's bullshit. It's not all, all just, stage and show shit you do, you wanna fuck me, that's what I was _talking_ about, Jesus. Don't fuckin' _listen_. Asshole.” Patrick's hands have clenched in the front of Pete's hoodie and he looks down, pouting and distracted and upset with either Pete or himself. He plays with the hoodie strings, his glasses slipping down his nose slightly. Pete barely cares that he doesn't know what the hell Patrick is talking about now because his pouty lips are very pink and full and it is physically impossible for Pete to keep his dick uninterested in _that_.

Pete shifts and blushes again because Patrick seems very intent on playing with Pete's hoodie zipper and sitting directly on his general dick area. “Are you gonna – ”

“Y'know what, Pete, fuck you,” Patrick suddenly says, cutting Pete off. “If you don't wanna fuck me and you've even got _me_ thinking that's all for, for fucking laughs and for the paps and shit, just 'cause gay shit is funny to you, then _fuck you_.” He punches Pete in the arm and it's surprisingly strong even if he's wasted. “Fake piece of shit _asshole_.”

“Huh?” Pete's arm is literally throbbing. “What the _hell_ , are you just pissed 'cause – ?”

“I'm pissed 'cause all you do is fuck around with me!” Patrick raises his voice this time, but it's angrier and a little more shrill than Pete was and it's making Pete cringe because they're both dead if they happen to wake everyone else in the bus up. “What if, what if I _wanted_ you to do all that shit you're always talking about? Like making out and fucking and just, I don't _know_ , a bunch of fucking gay shit you're always talking about on your goddamn Livejournal or everything we haven't put in songs! What if I _wanted_ that and you were just dicking around 'cause I'm fun to fuck with for you? You _asshole_!”

Pete feels like he's just been emotionally hit by a bus. A confusing, dysfunctional, drunk bus with a driver who may be about to burst into tears because he's having a friendship and sexuality crisis in Pete's lap. “You really want all that. . . ?”

“That's not what I _said_!” Patrick punches Pete in the shoulder this time and it has Pete making a pathetic, agonized noise as he stares at Patrick in total befuddlement. “That's not what I said, you piece of shit, I hate it when you – ”

Pete takes the biggest leap of faith he thinks anyone has ever taken and leans forward, pressing his lips awkwardly to Patrick's, their mouths sliding together like they're kissing in middle school. Patrick makes an alarmed little sound, too soft for how pissed he was a second ago. He doesn't respond, other than to fall silent and grip the front of Pete's hoodie tighter.

Pete is terrified. He didn't think that would really work and he was expecting to get punched again, this time in the face, and him and Patrick would hit each other and really wake everyone else up and it would suck because it'd be the night before a show. In Madison Square Garden, for fuck's sake. Instead, he's kissing Patrick Stump and acting like he's never kissed anyone before in his entire life. He lets out a tiny, shuddering breath against Patrick's mouth and parts his lips, hoping Patrick will do the same.

Patrick does do the same. His lips fall open and his head tilts slightly, his hand slipping up to thread through the choppy hair at the back of Pete's head. Pete can hear the smallest little plastic-y clicking sound and assumes Patrick's glasses have fallen even farther out of place. All of Pete's thoughts are abstract and particular and disconnected because his brain is fuzzy, fried from _is this actually fucking happening?_

Pete can hear and feel Patrick's little sigh when Pete runs his tongue over Patrick's lips and that's honestly enough on its own for spank bank material. He really does feel like a fucking middle schooler, like it's his first school dance and he has his first girlfriend and a condom he stole from his parents' room in his pocket. Maybe it's because he hasn't ever really kissed a guy before without it being a party trick.

Patrick breaks the kiss off and Pete's brain screams, shuttering him back into the real world. He had to have done something to fuck it up but he doesn't know what.

“Pete,” Patrick whispers, pulling on Pete's hoodie, sounding whiny. “You're fucking – you're Pete Wentz, kiss me like Pete Wentz kisses chicks, okay? Pretend I'm a chick. Do something with your hands, fuckssake, God.”

Pete doesn't have any kind of quip to shoot back for that because all his cohesive thoughts have shriveled up and died. All the blood in his entire upper half has relocated to his entire lower half. “Yeah. Okay, yeah,” he says instead, his voice low and throaty and sticky. “Pretend you're a chick. No problem. Just. . . lay down, okay?”

Patrick does as he's told, flopping back against the couch with a tiny, impatient huff. His skin is still flushed, but the color is deeper, his glasses nearly hanging at a diagonal angle. He has big, blinking, baby blue doe eyes and his hat is a little lopsided but he is not nearly disheveled or hard enough for Pete's liking.

He's drunk, too. Pete feels something collapse inside him when he remembers, because Patrick isn't himself, he's fucking drunk, people only want sex from weird people when they're drunk and desperate and when they've just recently broken up with their girlfriend who was cheating on them and they're miserable and lonely. Patrick isn't trying to fuck over Pete; this entire thing is subconscious, but that doesn't mean it doesn't feel like getting hit by another bus.

“ _Pete_ ,” Patrick whines, pushing himself up on his elbows. “The fuck is wrong with you, you started it, come _on_.”

Pete will officially be a bad person if he fucks Patrick while he's drunk. He's never claimed he was a _good_ person, because he's not, but being in a morally gray area that leans more towards good than bad is a lot better than, say, taking advantage of your lead singer and current lifelong best friend and soulmate because he's hot and cute and drunk and wants to fuck you while he's hot and cute and drunk.

Pete swallows and bites the bullet. He's a bad person but at least he's only human.

Pete cuts off Patrick's bitching, shoving his tongue in Patrick's open mouth. His heart is thumping rapidly in his chest, excitement and guilt chasing each other around in a dizzy circle. He doesn't want to think. An intense rush of satisfaction almost makes him lightheaded when Patrick whimpers and grabs at the back of Pete's hoodie, his hips riding up against Pete's thigh. Pete grabs Patrick's leg and pulls it up around his own waist, slipping into Patrick so they can grind against each other.

Patrick is definitely hard now. Pete can feel him through the pajama pants, his clothed cock straining against the fabric. It's much more forgiving than Pete's skinny jeans, which are beginning to kill him. Patrick doesn't seem to know or care or take notice at all, his fingers skidding down along Pete's hoodie and finding the hem, tugging it up.

Jesus, they're getting naked now, Pete is in way too fucking deep and he still refuses to put an end to things. He pulls away and lets Patrick drag the hoodie over his head and arms, pushing his bangs back out of his eyes.

Patrick looks up at Pete as though he's never seen him shirtless before – sort of a ridiculous concept – and trails his fingers along Pete's chest. He thumbs the nipple piercings, making Pete shudder and whine softly before he bites the side of his hand, not wanting to sound so pitiful.

“You're really hot,” Patrick mutters, sounding almost offended. “Like, you're really, really hot.”

Pete half-laughs, his insides twisting. He's a mess and he's fucked. He's about to tell Patrick how hot people suddenly become whenever one or both partners aren't sober anymore and how Patrick should rethink this whole thing before they fuck their friendship and band over for life, but then Patrick pushes himself up and splays his fingers over Pete's back and laves his tongue over Pete's nipple and Pete forgets how to talk.

Pete's eyes flutter shut as he tips his head back. Patrick teases Pete's nipple with his tongue and teeth, pulling ever so gently on the piercings and making Pete's breathing shiver and fall deeply out of balance. Pete distantly recalls some stupid article he read a few years ago in a newspaper at a diner when he was hopped up on pills and ready to pass out, about how beer and some other specific types of alcohol help with sexual performance and drive and shit. Either the article was right or Patrick is just has a fucking gifted mouth like Pete always said he did. Maybe it's both.

Either way, Pete lets a moan slip when Patrick thumbs and tweaks Pete's other nipple, sucking lightly on the first. It urges Patrick on and Pete feels the couch shift; he opens his eyes to see Patrick with his hand down his pajama pants, just squeezing it around his dick, not going far enough as to jerk himself off. Christ, maybe Patrick really is gay.

Pete grabs at Patrick's shoulder and pushes him away when the sensation is too much to handle, gasping quietly. “God, your fucking _mouth_ – come on, c'mere.” Feeling clumsy, Pete undoes his jeans, pulling the zipper down. He pushes his jeans and briefs to his thighs, freeing his cock, a relief that makes him weak at the knees. He's an even worse kind of person for making his hot and cute and drunk bandmate suck his dick, but if you're going through hell, keep on going, that kinda thing.

“Oh, Pete, no, ew,” Patrick says, full of distaste and doubt, his nose scrunched up. It makes him look like a kitten and it's adorable, but what would look more adorable is Patrick's mouth on Pete's cock, as porny and awful as that sounds.

“Not gonna sugarcoat it, 'Trick, you've got total BJ lips and you were _made_ for this. Just once. And then I'll fuck you.” Saying it makes Pete feel almost sick, like he's admitting to being a piece of shit, but the way Patrick blinks all wide and almost awed-looking is so, so worth it.

Tentative, Patrick takes his glasses off, folds them, curls his fingers around Pete's cock, and licks from the base to tip, watching Pete's eyes. Pete exhales shakily and cups the back of Patrick's head in his hand, knowing he'll lose his hand entirely if he tries to take Patrick's hat off to touch his hair. Patrick dips his head down and takes Pete into his mouth, going down on him like he's had way too much experience with this.

Seriously, a _lot of experience_. Patrick bobs his head, jerking off what doesn't fit past his lips, his free hand clutching at Pete's ass. Pete is so overwhelmed and taken aback, trying not to make enough noise to wake up all of Pennsylvania (he's pretty sure that's where they are now) and shoving his fingers in his mouth to stifle himself that he doesn't even think about fucking Patrick's mouth until Patrick pushes at him, urging him forward.

Pete's fingers twist in the hair not covered by Patrick's cap and he cants his hips forward, trying to be careful. He's embarrassing himself, making these little obscene moaning, whimpering noises like he's some twink in a gay porno. If Patrick thinks it's embarrassing, he doesn't show it, because he swallows around Pete obediently, his palm rubbing against his cock through his pajama pants.

It's the surprise that gets Pete close so quickly and he almost shoves Patrick away again before Patrick does it himself, pulling his mouth off Pete's cock and coughing, spit and precum slipping down his chin. His eyes are watering from his gag reflex's protest. The sight is a thousand times hotter than it needs to be. “F-fuck – fuck you, I – I'm not gonna fuckin' deepthroat you, Pete, I've gotta _sing_ tomorrow.”

“Yeah, no.” Pete exhales, his breath trembling. “No, it's okay, you did good; where'd the fuck you learn that?”

Patrick rolls his eyes, blushing his hardest tonight. “We tour with a lotta other bands. I don't want you to. . . Don't ask. Now just fucking do something, okay? Like, something without your dick in my mouth.” He collapses back against the couch and pulls his pajama pants off, flinging them away with a questionable flick of the wrist. “The hat stays.”

“Yeah, I know.” Pete fumbles with his jeans and briefs, managing to peel them off without too much hassle. “Oh, fuck, d'you have lube or something?” They can do without condoms, but lube is definitely essential.

“Uh-huh. In my bunk.” Patrick drops the Clandestine hoodie to the bus floor, revealing a pajama shirt to match the pants. So now Pete has to be fucking his hot and cute and drunk bandmate while staring down at Batman (from the nineties animated series) because there's no way he'll be taking the shirt off either. “Pillow. S'right under it.”

When Pete returns with the half-empty bottle of slick, he no longer cares about how unsexy Kevin Conroy's Batman is, because Patrick is pouty and his thick, pink, leaking cock is curled up towards his soft stomach and his hat is pushed up, his glasses back on his nose.

“I couldn't see,” he says simply, making Pete burst into giggles and shove his face into a cushion when he drops back down onto the couch.

“Peeete, shut the fuck up,” Patrick complains, kicking Pete in the side with his sock foot. “Are you gonna fuck me already or not?”

Pete manages to contain himself, biting his lip and snorting slightly. “Yeah, I am. For real. Let's do this. Uh, spread your legs.” Fuck it, there's no point in hating himself right now, he can do that later.

Patrick slips down a little against the arm of the couch and does as he's told, looking dubious. He does look ridiculous, dressed in a hat and glasses and a pajama shirt and socks, but Pete would think Patrick was hot if he was wearing a Teletubbies costume. He can overlook drunk and insecure Patrick's fashion choices.

Pete uncaps the lube bottle and coats his fingers in slick. His eyes flicker up to watch Patrick's face as he slips half of his finger inside Patrick, trying to go as deep as he can before Patrick gasps and shudders and tenses up, his toes curling inside his socks.

“Does that hurt?” Pete asks.

Patrick shakes his head jerkily, adjusting his hips. “It's – s'fine. I'm fine. Keep going.”

Pete's pretty sure it's not fine, but he does as Patrick asks. Patrick winces and whines and makes the most pained, helpless little sounds while Pete fingers him, especially when he adds a second finger, until Pete finds a new angle and crooks his fingers up and Patrick lets out such a sharp gasp that Pete's breath catches.

“Fuck, that's better.” Patrick shoves his hair out of his eyes and sighs. “Do it again.”

Pete would throw himself in traffic just to hear Patrick's sex noises ever again so he doesn't need to be told twice. He curls his fingers up on his strokes inside Patrick, opening him up, getting him loose.

Patrick turns into a little whore once Pete starts doing something he likes. He rolls his hips against Pete's hand, sucking on his fingers to give himself something to do and moaning around them. He's more of a performer here than he is during shows.

“You're a slut, lunchbox,” Pete says, like he's a disappointed parent.

“Yeah, I'm _your_ slut,” Patrick says, probably intending for that to be a joke but it goes between Pete's hips so fast it doesn't register as one. Pete's dick twitches and he swallows hard, feeling like liquid heat. He pushes a third finger inside Patrick and Patrick lets out a cry, biting his pajama sleeve.

“Come on, I'm fucking ready now.” Patrick manages to sound cross even when Pete tries to attempt to get four fingers inside him. “Can't, c-can't get much looser, Pete, _please_.”

Pete would've certainly done it without the _please_ , but the fact that Patrick is willing to beg to get what he wants is something he files away for future reference (and more spank bank material). He pulls his fingers back out of Patrick and hurriedly uncaps the lube bottle to slick himself up.

Pete hitches Patrick's legs up, pulling him forward so they rest over Pete's shoulders. Thank God there's only a few inches of height difference between them. He wraps his hand around his cock, his other holding Patrick's waist. He very nearly asks if Patrick is really okay with this, but Patrick looks like an ideal little docile mess, his hole swollen and slick and gaping and lips red and parted, his eyes dark. Pete is finally able to get rid of second thoughts and slam his hips forward.

He doesn't start off easy, because he usually never does. All or fucking nothing. Patrick is pretty tight, a little too tight for him to have actually been ' _fucking ready now_ ', and he's paying the price for it. Patrick cries out and protests before Pete shuts him up, kissing him quiet because he's going to wake up the _entire goddamn bus if he hasn't already_. Pete grinds his hips against Patrick's ass, moving in a close, sharp, fast rhythm.

There aren't words to describe how amazing Patrick feels. It feels like true love, honestly. Pete's never loud during sex, but he _wants_ to be right now. He drives deeper, shoving Patrick down into the couch cushions, fingers pressed into Patrick's thighs. It is absolutely the stupidest thing a person could do to pound the shit out of your lead singer the day before he has to sing his fucking heart out for Madison Square Garden while your other bandmates and part of the crew are supposed to be sleeping and _oh Jesus fucking Christ Pete thinks he hears the bunks rustling_. Patrick sobs and moans when Pete breaks off the kiss, obviously not understanding the entire concept of _why_ this is absolutely stupid.

Pete is going to hell. He pushes Patrick's legs up even higher for a better angle, knowing he'll leave fingerprints behind in Patrick's skin as he fucks Patrick within an inch of his life, making sure he thinks of Pete as the best goddamn partner he's ever had so he knows what the hell he's been missing with all this sexual repression. _Anna? What's an Anna?_ _Sounds like a backstabbing_ _slut_ _to me, that's all I know._ Patrick's fingernails dig into Pete's back, his glasses knocked askew again, Pete's name falling from his lips like a broken record.

“'Trick, will you fucking _shut up_ ,” Pete has to hiss, slamming back into him, the couch creaking alarmingly. Patrick tries to glare at him but it's ruined when he almost chokes on another sob and _“Pete”_ , which would be a lot more hot if Pete wasn't suddenly sure Andy was going to gut him tomorrow.

Patrick has vigorous sexual youth and low stamina and it doesn't take long for Pete to push him too far, what with how worked up he was anyway. He throws his arms around Pete's neck and arches up, spilling all over his stomach and both his and Pete's chests, ruining his poor pajama shirt and drenching one of Pete's piercings in spunk. He comes down with a low, shaking moan, clenching around Pete, nails biting into Pete's skin, making Pete snap about fifteen seconds after.

Pete groans and drops his head against Patrick's collarbone, shutting his eyes, his hips jerking through the aftershocks. He only remembers to release Patrick's hips when he manages to come down from his high and he hears Patrick's vague, discontented sounds.

Pete pulls out of Patrick and sits back, taking a long, deep breath, the afterglow fading way too quickly. Patrick's eyes are closed and he's gone completely limp against the couch, his breathing evened out.

Now he's managed to go to sleep.

Patrick's ass is bare and dripping with jizz and his pajama top is smeared with sticky white. But he still looks a little bit like an angel when he's asleep. The guilt, as expected, hits Pete like, well, another bus.

He hears a slide of metal against plastic and looks up. As soon as he does, he sees Joe's curtain immediately get pulled back into place. Pete is so, so not looking forward to the lecture that he really deserves tomorrow when they're getting french toast sticks at fucking Burger King for breakfast.

Pete does Patrick a favor and manages to clean him up as well as he can before heading back to his bunk, collapsing and shutting his eyes, unable to sleep for the rest of the way into New York.


End file.
